


running up that hill

by Wintertree



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Tresspasser DLC Compliant, Purple Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintertree/pseuds/Wintertree
Summary: you know when you randomly get sexy dreams abt your friends, and it's really weird and upsetting bc you dont THINK you have a crush on them? it's like that for hawke but with demons bc life is never easy





	running up that hill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glittering_Darmallon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glittering_Darmallon/gifts).



> Heya, I hope you enjoy!!! Title of the fic is taken from the Kate Bush song. Disclaimer: it has NOTHING to do with the story. I just like Kate Bush.

Hawke feebly swats at the demon that’s been trailing him for the past six or so miles. Or some type of time or distance, hard to tell. Never really know what you’re going to get behind the Veil. He was enjoying a nice stretch of things before this particular bastard caught sniff of him.

His mage robes are nearly gone by now, just the protective leathering left. The thin remains of his soles are only held together by scraps of magic and weaving spells. Thank the Maker his father taught him and Bethany how to preserve and mend clothes back in Lothering. _It will help you master your magic, learn how to be gentle, how to be subtle and unnoticeable_ , Malcolm had said. At the very least it keeps him from being bloody naked.

“Please Hawke, you know I can’t keep up,” the demon says in a voice that doesn’t belong to it.

“Then be a dear and stop following me.” Hawke’s staff lies broken somewhere – probably? He’s holding a large splinter of it in his hand, which he uses to shake at the demon without looking. When did that happen. Sweat runs into his eyes, stinging them. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand and is shocked when it comes back bloody. So, _not_ sweat in his eyes.

Huh. Maybe it’s not the Fade messing with his sense of direction and time, maybe he’s just gone and gotten himself concussed like a fucking idiot.

Hawke steps in a particularly dewy patch of grass and tries to keep a shudder from rolling up his spine. Thankfully this part of the Fade hasn’t been as barren and acrid as it was under Nightmare’s domain. In the beginning all the spirits were all in a tizzy, but they mostly calmed down the further away he’s travelled. He was in a most _beautiful_ glen for a while, all shiny leaves and glossy fruits.

It’s not immediate, but the more upset a spirit is, the more unstable the ground. Or maybe it’s vice versa. Hawke’s not exactly sure where he is now. The land around him is a bit rockier and hillier again, akin to the beaches at Sundermount. Sometimes, when he sleeps, he can almost imagine he sees the actual world. Or glimpses of it through the Fade. It’s a bit like when he got drunk and stole Isabela’s spyglass to look at her through the wrong end, tiny and impossibly far away.

But now... but now this _thing_ won’t quit stalking him at a slow, steady pace. Hawke can sort of tell he’s being herded in a specific direction, but he’s too exhausted to push back.

Sometimes he wonders if he’s already dead. Or if he’s not actually himself, just a spirit convinced he’s himself. What a headache.

“You used to be a lot more fun, you know,” it says.

Hawke glares and finally looks behind him, to where Varric comes to a stop an even ten paces behind. It’s almost startling how much it looks like the dwarf, down to the annoyed look on his face. Varric swats– the _demon_ swats at an invisible fly, grumbling.

Hawke rips his gaze away and reviews where he is. To his left he can see a gentle slope up to the top of an adjacent cliff.

Varric follows his line of sight. “Oh come on, now you’re just being cruel, Hawke.”

He ignores the demon and continues the slow incline up.

About halfway up, Hawke curses his own pettiness. The demon is obviously not his old friend and has no issues with the steep hill, unlike his own broken body. Breathing in too deeply makes him cough, and he refuses to acknowledge the pain in his chest as a fractured rib.

He kicks himself internally. His memory is foggy, but now he can sort of remember letting loose a massive blizzard earlier in the day. He can’t find a memory of falling, but does sort of remember picking himself off the ground, groaning and disorientated.

Hawke’s gone up against worse enemies than one little demon snipping at his heels.

Soon he crests the top of the path and finds himself on a open grassy plain that sharply drops off against the cliff.

The demon’s gone silent for a moment, but the back of Hawke’s neck prickles. He turns to glance over his shoulder, but the path behind him is clear.

“Hiking out of spite. You’ve been a contrarian since the day I met you, but even that’s a new one.”

Hawle jumps in surprise – the Not-Varric somehow snuck in front of him. Close, now, only a few feet away. “I was delightful when we first met.”

“Maybe when _you_ met _me_. But when I first met you, you were minutes from starting a fight with the bartender. But you’ve got a way about you,” he chuckles, “and now they shout your name when you enter.”

“Couldn’t you find something else to bother?” Hawke can’t help but whine. He’s too tired to push back against the demon or its lies.

Varric shrugs. “You know he’d never give up on you if he thought you were alive.” It looks at him with sharp eyes. “But if we’re being honest, Hawke, he stopped thinking that a while back.”

“Giving up? On the Champion? Impossible,” Hawke says, grasping at his chest in mock outrage to hide how tight it actually feels.

“Then why?” it asks, a slight tremor in its voice. “Why didn't you come back?”

“Come back to what, the real world, and be forced to go to Weisshaupt? No,” Hawke chuckles weakly, “Carver would strangle me if I charmed all his shiny new friends.”

“Or Kirkwall.” A slight breeze crests over the hill, tossling those slight wisps of hair that never stay tied back.

Hawke swallows, unable to look at him. The low rumble in voice and glint in his eye is too real. Too achingly familiar. Easier to glance at the spirit out of the corner of his eye, letting it turn all fuzzy and glowing and spirity.

“Not possible. The real Varric would know that, too,” Hawke manages to mumble out.

“Not as the Viscount.” Varric takes a step to the left, re-entering his eyeline. “Oh, you don’t know that, do you? How much time’s passed? The war’s over. The rifts sealed...well, for now at least. We’ve moved on. I’ve moved on. With you at my side, we could have rebuilt Kirkwall together.” He crouches, so close Hawke can tell his stubble's two days old. “Not as a city, but as a home.”

Varric leans forward, pressing a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. Hawke’s mind stutters to a stop, breath catching. He never– it’s not like that. Not between them. Varric was, Varric _is_ his friend. Just his best friend. Practically family. Slowly, almost like time’s dripping down like molasses, the demon shifts and catches his lips on a second kiss before leaning back and staring at Hawke through furrowed brows.

“Urhgh, what a line,” Hawke replies, fronting a smile through a tight chest. “Sorry, old friend, guess I have a pretty shit opinion of your writing.”

He casts the strongest Mindblast he can, flinging the screeching Regret demon off the cliff’s edge and down below.

Hawke slumps in the dirt, wrung out, and stares at the floating mountains above. They’re quite pretty, not at all like some of the blemished, hulking rocks he’s come across. He can see smudges of green along the rim, hinting at bushes or even trees. He’s seen (and eaten) scattered fauna spirits, perhaps there are some up there as well. He savors the image of a nug not just on the surface, but miles above, nervously shaking amongst the clouds. Varric would have found that hilarious. More hilarious would be Varric peeking over the edge himself and shitting pure veridium bricks.

He exhales his breath, letting every worry and pain seep out of him and join the sky. Worrying only attracts more demons. He refuses to let his mind spin, wondering how much the demon said is a lie or worse, the truth. For all he knows it’s been less than an hour since he left the Inquisitors side.

Or a lifetime.

But probably not, he thinks, kicking himself for getting melodramatic and at the tears spilling out of the corner of his eyes. Being physically in the Fade is different than visiting it through a dream. It’s weirder than Andraste’s third tit, but it’s sturdier. The ground firmer.

And as for that episode with the not-Varric… better to place that in a box. A _tight_ box to examine when he’s not literally leaking blood from his head.

He can feel the prickly presence of another spirit, demon, or whatever the hell won’t let him rest. Hawke lets his eyes fall shut.

“If you’re going to be a bother, be a dear and be a nice spirit, please?” he mumbles into the dirt. “How about a nice Compassion spirit, or Love, or even A Good Long Piss?”

“Pushy, pushy,” a warm woman’s voice answers, “but I am afraid I am quite human.”

Hawke cracks his eye open. He recognizes the woman – the witch – and struggles to sit up.

“A touch of help then?”

“You seem to be doing quite fine on your own, and you should know that your meddling with my mother was most unappreciated,” the witch Morrigan says, but she helps pull him to his feet anyways. “I am impressed, most would not have survived this long in the Fade.”

Hawke wobbles on his feet. “Er, not to be rude, but why are you here?”

The witch frowns slightly. “I owe a debt. But if I am unable to find a wolf, I can at least bring home a mage.”

“And… how are we to return,” Hawke chokes out. He looks at a fixed point above her shoulder, willing himself to catch a glimpse of her true form. Instead the witch laughs, throaty and blessedly human.

“Why, through there. Tis no matter.” Hawke follows her pointed finger to see a grand archway. No, a mirror, swirling with some type of mercury filling, which Hawke could have sworn was never there. Or was it always there? He licks his lips, aware of how dry and tacky they feel and decides not to give shit either way. “Now, enough of this. I must be off.”

Morrigan tugs him forward by the arm and tosses him through the eluvian.

He can feel the moment the liquidy wash of the mirror slips over him, and then it’s over.

He’s in a small room… no, apartment, neat yet well-worn furniture and rugs adorning the space. A compact but neatly made bed is shoved to the corner. Quiet murmurs leak through the adjoining room.

“Did you hear something?” a soft, lilting voice asks. No, it’s Merrill – Merrill asks. Hawke wants to shout out, to say something, but a lump sits heavy in his throat and he can’t dare to make a sound.

“Maker, I knew we shouldn’t have trusted the witch go alone,” says the other woman as she turns the doorknob and enters the room, revealing herself to be Aveline. Sturdy, scowling, fully armored, _beautiful_ Aveline. She gasps at the sight of him. Her hair’s cut short, tight to her scalp, and new lines crease around her eyes and mouth.

“Aveline, I–”

“Quiet,” she says. Aveline raises her shield, and cocks her head at Merrill who’s peeking at him through the doorway, her eye’s wide and wet. “Is it him?”

Hawke feels Merrill’s magic wash over him. It always feels a bit wild, rawer on the edges, yet gentler than most mage’s.

“It’s him,” Merrill says. “Oh Hawke, it’s _you_. How are you here?”

“I don’t bloody care,” Aveline bites out. She practically tosses her shield across the room and yanks Hawke to his feet before enveloping him in a crushing hug. “You’re a right asshole, Hawke.”

“Yes, yes I am,” he says, words barely coherent as they’re mashed up against her neck, along with his tears.

 

Hawke happily lets himself be stripped of his ragged leathers and swaddled in thick, clean wool. They’re in Merrill’s bedroom still, and she fusses giddily around him, light fingers checking his body for scrapes and sores before locking him in a vice grip and applying poultices with a heavy hand. Aveline stepped outside only briefly to send a hooded courier across the city, but resumed her post in front of the eluvian, staring at the thing with wariness.

He didn’t notice him initially, but the witch’s odd son is here as well. He peppers Hawke with questions about the Fade until Merrill shooes him with a spellbook and a stern look.

There’s some kind of commotion in the main room and Aveline once again slips out to attend to it, but Hawke’s attention is elsewhere. According to Merrill, apparently there’s another war brewing, but seeing as he’s saved Kirkwall, and now Thedas, this time the whole bloody world will have to _fight_ _a fucking god_ without him.

“How exactly did you save Thedas, Hawke? Seems like you fought for a couple minutes and then tripped into another dimension,” Merrill says. The murmuring the hall grows louder.

Hawke scowls. “I absolutely _helped_.”

The bedroom door swings open.

“No, I helped. You went on a three and a half year milk run,” says Varric. _His_ Varric.

He comes to a stop in front of where Hawke’s seated on the bench. It’s eerie, how similar he looks to the Regret demon. Except this Varric’s _real_ , even out of the corner of his eye. Real, stocky, and a little sweaty. The hairs thinning along his temple, and his eyes are wet and red-rimmed. Hawke can’t help but reach out and grab him, unwilling to let go but unsure if he should grip him on the arm, waist, or shoulder. So he touches it all, hands constantly shifting without making purchase.

“I forgot how short you were,” he says stupidly.

Varric just grins and tugs on Hawke’s scraggly beard. “At least I didn’t let myself go.”

His heart skips a beat and he slows his hands. “You’re just jealous I can grow a beard.” He tightens the screws on the mental box containing his interaction with the demon. This version of Varric is the real one; he’s a friend, not an illusion meant to confuse and disorient him.

Varric barks out a laugh, a hint of panic bleeding through, and shifts his hand to cup at Hawke’s jaw. For a half second, Hawke internally panics and thinks Varric’s going to kiss him, but he only guides their foreheads to press together. Hawke tries not to startle at the cool metal suddenly pressed against his skin. Pulling back, he finally notices a thin crown adorned on Varric’s head.

“Oh,” Hawke breathes out, “you’re _actually_ the damn Viscount.”

“Ah, yeah.” Varric sheepishly pokes at it. “Heavy lies the crown and all that. But since Kirkwall’s too cheap to have it made out of real gold, mostly it just lies itchy. City after my own heart.”

Merrill makes a polite cough. “I’m not done here, if you mind, Varric.”

They let go, but Varric doesn’t take more than a step back. He grimaces at the eluvian, eyes darting back between it and Hawke.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Daisy. I’m glad it got him home. But when the witch gets back, I want that damn mirror out of my city.” Varric takes a another step back to wisely steer clear of a determined Merrill armed with bitter regeneration potions. “And I want him at the Keep eating a hot meal by sundown.”

 

Hawke feels like a new man after his hot bath.

No, scratch that. Hawke barely feels like a man at all after his hot bath. He’s merely a relaxed, warm, _clean_ puddle in the approximate shape of a human, floating on what might be the most comfortable bed ever built. It’s dwarven style, and Hawke mentally decrees it’s creator a Paragon. He nearly weeps when a servant shoves a hot water bottle under the sheets. His head pounds, but he’s experienced the potency of Merrill’s poultices before and knows the damage will be but a shadow in a day or so.

Varric creeps into the room with a stack of papers, and Hawke tells him so, exhaustion letting his tongue run loose.

The dwarf chuckles. “I don’t creep, Hawke. You forget I own this whole Keep.”

“Until someone chops your head off,” Hawke says. He aims for deadpan, but knows that a goofy smile is still plastered across his own face. A memory of the fake kiss flashes behind his eyes.

“Nah, too hard on their backs to bend down that far.” Varric goes silent for a beat and fiddles with his things. “Would it bother you if I keep one of the candles lit? I’ve got some letters to write.”

Hawke’s barely able to wave his hand conceedingly before another wave of exhaustion threatens to overwhelm him. Varric chuckles softly as he snuffs out all candles but the one on the writing desk by the window.

Listening to the quiet scratching of quill on parchment and slipping asleep, Hawke fuzzily realizes that Varric didn’t ask for permission to stay.

 

Hawke’s not sure if it’s getting easier adapting to a new life, or if he’s just too exhausted to let it bother him.

Either way, over the past fortnight, things see calm. The witch returned from the mirror, grabbing her boy and taking off into the night with barely a moment spent debriefing the Inquisition scouts. Even without the Viscount’s protection, the Chantry’s too busy to care about Hawke. And Hawke’s just cycling through eating, sleeping and taking self-indulgent baths. It’s a bit like being a babe, albeit a hairy one. Varric teases him until he trims his beard to a neater and more dashing shape.

“You’re giving me a complex,” he quips, “and I’ve got half a mind to banish you. Or throw you in the stocks, which could be fun.”

Hawke shrugs lazily. “Thank you dearly for the offer. But if one of your servants could fetch me some paste and you your square chin, I can always let you borrow my trimmings for an evening.” He gives Varric a long wink. “I’m _ever_ so generous like that.”

Varric flips him a rude gesture and runs out of Hawke’s quarters, eternally late to some meeting or signing or what have you. Hawke pushes down the pang that shoots through his chest. He thought… well it’s no matter what he _thought_ , being the Viscount is obviously a time consuming position. The old Viscount didn’t do bloody much but pace his office and chew chalk tablets, but Varric was never one to sit idle. He’s got important things to do, not nanny an adult man.

It just means they haven’t had time to talk. They’ll throw a couple jokes at each other, and every so often Hawke will either go to sleep or wake up with Varric in his room, quill scratching away at another memo. But finding time, or Maker forgive _conscious_ time with him is like trying to catch a greased nug. And their conversations are never like they use to be – warm, nimble-tongued, and so full of good humor his face felt like it’d crack from grinning. One night at the Hanging Man, Varric put on Hawke’s ridiculous mage hat and gave a show so bawdy, it even made Isabela piss herself a little.

And… then there’s the demon.

Hawke scrubbed over every memory, every inch of his life, trying to find some clue as to why a bloody _Regret_ demon would try something like _that_ while wearing _that_ face. It’s something a Desire demon would do in a heartbeat, seeing as they're equally annoying as they are depraved. But as far as Hawke can tell, he never once had romantic feelings toward the dwarf. Never, not in all the years they practically lived inside each other’s pockets. Sexual feelings… well, probably. Sure. But to be fair, all off Hawke’s friends are handsome. Who hasn’t had a racy dream about a friend once or twice?

But as much as he tries, he can’t shake loose the memory, or settle the odd feeling he gets when he stares at Varric too long. Or perhaps he’s blowing everything out of proportion, and the intensity he feels toward Varric is a byproduct of missing his friend so damn much. If he just keeps his head down, this silly thing will fade and it’ll be nothing but a funny story. A small footnote in the follow-up novel Varric lies about not writing. And he’ll get his friend back, firmly and truly back in his life.

Andraste’s tits, the bloody creature ruined everything.

Hawke locks the door and shucks his leathers to pull on a linen nightgown, enjoying the slight breeze it affords him. When he first came to Kirkwall, he used to go to bed in his boots, in case he had to wake up in the middle of the night and fight off one of Gamlen’s many belligerent debt collectors. Perhaps there’s something mushy to be said about being so comfortable, and feeling so safe within these walls that no longer feels the need to dress like that. But mostly he just really likes the breeze.

He slips into bed and let’s his hands wander despite his sour mood. He feels tired after, and a bit drained.

A lot drained.

 

“Shove over,” Varric whispers. “I finished work early, thought I’d crash here. Like old times.”

Hawke groans. He can barely make out the shadowy shape attached to Varric’s voice, leaning over the side of the bed.

“Oh _bugger_ this.”

He casts a strong Dispel spell and throws up an orb of light, letting spirit magic fill the room with a soft glow. The demon screeches, and the smudgy shape melts into the background.

Since he came back to Kirkwall, he’s been blessed by deep darkness every night. Apparently now that he’s more accustomed to the rhythm of his new life (and less numbingly exhausted), it was only a matter of time before he visited the Fade in his dreams.

Hawke curses as his “room” slips into a misty copy of the Blooming Rose. This demon picked the wrong damn mage to mess with. He’s always been quite good at recognizing the Fade for what it is, but after spending the last couple years behind the bloody Veil, it’s like being able to tell the difference between a crude drawing and seeing a man’s member in person. No matter how impressive the artist may try to render it, you’re never going to mistake it for the real deal.

“Really Hawke, you see my face and all you can think about next are pricks?” the not-Varric materializes behind the bar and pours himself a large mug of ale. “I’m sure one of these rooms is still unoccupied.”

“I suppose you won’t just go away, even if I ask super, super nicely?” he asks hollowly, but even if it was a real question, Hawke already knows the answer. It’s different now, looking at this demon through the fog of his dreams, but he still recognizes it as the Regret demon that tailed him to the eluvian. “And there are no ‘old times’ if we never shared a bed to begin with.”

“Oh, we did once. Granted, it really wasn't that scandalous. But if you don’t remember, how about some new times, then?” The demon chuckles darkly and takes a sip. “We both know I’m too much a coward to say anything, Hawke. If you don’t, it won’t happen.”

Hawke consciously relaxes his tense jaw. “Perhaps I don’t _want_ anything to happen.”

“Yeah,” it says, voice so broken and so soft Hawke needs to strain to hear it. “I know.”

 

Hawke shoots up in bed, his _real_ bed this time, heart racing. If you let the dreams run their course, annoying as they are, you at least wake up rested. He can practically hear his father scolding him gently, warning him that wrenching yourself awake only makes dreaming of the Fade that much worse. But he couldn’t bear to watch that sad, pale version of Varric for another moment.

“Bugger this,” he mumbles again into his pillow.

 

It doesn’t get better.

Hawke curses himself for combing over every interaction they’ve ever had. Now every other time he drifts asleep, he’s greeted by the same demon. It likes to play a game where it’s conjures an exact recreation of a past memory, except with Varric begging Hawke to make a move. Or begging Hawke not to leave. Or begging him not to stay, but to run far, far away to safety.

One dream takes place the night after Leandra died. But instead of Aveline, Varric follows him to his room and holds him, gently rocking. Hawke wakes with tears on his cheeks and a cold, empty bed.

In the real world, Varric is no less slippery, but now Hawke lets him go. Their interactions are down to a couple passing comments per day at best, and he no longer keeps Hawke company while he sleeps.

Aveline finally reaches her breaking point and tosses Hawke out of the barracks when he spends too much time harassing her guards. He wanders down to the docks, kills a couple slavers. Lightens his mood, but then it’s time to return to his quarters.

He knows he’s been in there for too long. Certainly there’s been ambassadors, or other traveling dignitaries that need the space. He tracked down Orana in the care of another noble and rehired her on the spot. She’s been getting the Hawke Estate up and running at a feverish pace. He could have moved back home a week prior, but he wasn’t ready to leave the bustle of the Keep.

As he climbs the steep stairs, dried slaver blood already itching on his forearms, he admits to himself that it’s probably time. Things in the city have changed since he left. _He’s_ changed since he left. He'll send a note to Varric's seneschal informing him of the change rather than bother the dwarf in person. It's better that way.

 

Varric sends Hawke a nice bottle of wine the first night he's back at the Estate. Hawke gives it to the maids.

 

Hawke dreams of when he first physically fell into the Fade. The story-within-a-story aspect of it makes his brain hurt if he thinks about it too hard.

Regardless, he slogs through the murky water with the Inquisitor and company as Varric prattles on and on about how it’s all his fault Hawke’s here and Nightmare’s going to kill him, or whatever. He’s quite familiar with this speech by now. It makes him want to track down Varric in the real world, shake him by the shoulders until…

Hawke slows to a stop, mind churning. He stares hard at Varric’s retreating back. It’s foggy and shadowy, just like it always is in the Fade. But from here, Hawke can see a smudgy shadow tailing the team at a safe distance in the water.

He gives himself a little boost from his magic and cuts across the beach, reaching down and yanking the spirit from the water. It’s still smudgy with poorly defined edges, but solid enough that he can grip it tightly in its hands. Up ahead, Varric freezes and turns back to face him.

“You were here,” Hawke breathes out.

“What do you mean?” it says, in perfect unison with Varric.

Hawke drops the spirit in his hand. “Maker’s–”

 

“– _balls_ ,” he half shouts as he rips himself awake. His mind spins.

He tears across the room, trying to waste as little time as he can. Judging by the dirty light seeping through his slatted windows, it’s about an hour before the sun truly rises. Hawke yanks on breeches and tucks his gown rather than dig around for anything nicer. He probably smells stale from sleep-sweat, but before he knows it, he’s out of the door and sprinting to the Keep.

 

“Er, hey Hawke,” Varric says, visibly startling as Hawke barges into his room. Hawke distantly realizes that in the month or so he’s been back, and of all the times the dwarf came to his room, he never once visited Varric back. Chatting up the guard when he lived here was time well spent; they let him storm past them with only a simple nod. Aveline will be furious. “How can I help you?”

“I’m being stalked by a Regret demon,” he blurts out. Well. He really should have took a moment’s pause before doing this. Too late now.

Varric blinks. “Oh. Right, well, I’ve got some guys, maybe they—”

“Sorry, wait, I’m trying to figure something out.” Hawke breathes. “How did we first meet?”

Varric glances over at the dwarven clock on his mantle, noting the absurdly early hour. He adopts a gentle voice, obviously trying to calm Hawke like a spooked horse. “You know this. Bartrand told you no about the expedition–”

“No,” Hawke says, shaking his head, “no that’s the first time we _spoke_. When did you, you know, became aware of me? Or saw me for the first time?”

Varric moves away from his desk to sit in his armchair. “I guess about four months before then.” He chuckles. “You killed a smuggler right outside the Hanged Man, but his blood started seeping through the door. You argued that you shouldn’t have to pay to have it cleaned since you got him outside. Carver finally threw two silvers at Corff after twenty minutes of, ah, spirited conversation.”

Aware his pacing was making Varric watch him with a careful eye, Hawke stills his feet and sat at the foot of Varric’s bed. “I was a bit of an asshole.”

“Yeah, ha. Like that’s ever changed.” Varric drums his fingers against the armrests, but relaxes. “But it wasn’t just that. Plenty of hired hands are good in a fight. This guy, though, wasn’t actually a smuggler. He promised to get Fereldan refugees into the city, but instead he murdered them and looted their corpses. He also had a distinctive shield, which somehow got anonymously got placed in the Fereldan charity box the next day.”

Hawke hums. It jogs a half-forgotten memory. Aveline had boxed him on the ear when she heard what he did, but never brought it up again, which he took to mean quiet approval. He… had no idea Varric had even known that. But apparently he was as observant as a pound of lead.

“You never told me.”

Varric grins. “I’ve always preferred the version where we met after I took down a pickpocket. Makes me sound mysterious and dashing.”

“And…” Hawke doesn't let himself go for the easy joke, questions still burning in the back of his mind. “And have we ever shared a bed?”

Varric tenses again. “Hawke, is something–”

“Just– just please, Varric. Did we?” Hawke glances back at Varric, but he's already looking away. Varric scratches at his neck, fingernails rasping against the stubble. Hawke can’t help but notice how tired he looks, and wonders when the dwarf ever gets a blink of sleep.

“Yes. Once. We fought off a pack of blood mages, but you nearly got sucked dry. You were feverish, and no matter how much Blondie told me you would be fine… I really thought you were going to die.” Varric coughs. “I guess I never told you that, embarrassing, right? Ha, well I wouldn’t leave and the chairs were murder for my back, so finally I just said ‘shove over’ and got in with you.”

He experiences a bit of vertigo. “Right.”

Varric sighs. “If there’s a point to this, I’m going to hate it, aren’t I?”

Hawke laughs weakly. “Probably.” He can’t help himself and looks away, eyes landing on the clock slowly ticking away. “Like I said, Regret demon. I think it’s latched on. To me, and to you. Well, mostly you.”

“What.”

“I remembered something, from when we fell in the Fade. There was a Regret demon, barely formed. Followed us the whole time. Or you, more specifically. When I stayed, it must have stuck around as well. And when I got close to Kirkwall, it started following me again. Or maybe it was leading me home on purpose. It... knew things. Thing I wouldn’t know, but _you_ might.”

Varric rubs his eyes. “That's what that was about? I don’t know, Hawke, maybe you never consciously realized you saw me before in The Hanging Man, or you were more lucid than you thought with the fever.”

“But–”

“Hawke, I think I’d know if I had a little demon fan club,” he says, voice brittle.

Hawke keeps pushing. “Not necessarily. You don’t see the Fade when you sleep, but this demon became… interested in you when you were on the other side. It’s been attached to you ever since, even if you can’t feel it yourself. And it’s gotten really good at being you.”

“Fun. An a ‘Regret’ demon, you said?” Varric sighs even heavier at Hawke’s nod. “Hate to admit it, but that does kind of sound like something that’d happen to me.”

“You’ve– you know, you’ve got a lot of regret?”

Varric scoffs. “What do you think, Champion. I’ve got no family, nearly ended the world by letting a monster out of its cage, and now some idiots decided I have to run a fucking city. Sorry, sorry,” Varric says. “That came out harsher than I meant it to. I’m just tired. And now you think it’s latched on to you, too. So how do we kill this bastard?”

“It’s mostly harmless, truly.” Hawke hesitates. “It’s just confusing, trying to figure out when it’s reflecting my regret back at me, or when it’s yours.” Hawke looks out of the window. Part of him hopes he’d waited a bit longer to time this part with the sunrise, but it’s still too early. “Varric, did you, in the past, want to be... intimate? With me?”

“Oh shit.” Varric jumps to his feet and starts pacing the room, laughing nervously. “Nope, not doing this.”

“Varric, please.”

“Ha, I knew I’d hate this. Listen,” he says, finally stilling but positioning himself by the door as if he’s going to bolt any moment, “if you’re having trouble figuring things out, let me tell you now. You never felt that way about me.”

“But–”

“No. I know you Hawke. Better than I know myself, sometimes, but this,” he says, gesturing between them, “this was always friendship.”

Hawke wants to argue, but knows Varric's right. “And now?”

Varric sighs and rubs his head. “You know I love you, you big idiot. Always will. I know things have been a bit weird since you got back, but don’t let it concern you. Nothing’s changed. We’re friends. And when it’s a more reasonable hour, we’ll figure out how to kill the damn demon and get you some good rest.”

“Right.” Hawke pulls himself to his feet, mouth cotton dry.

 _We’ve moved on. I’ve moved on,_ the demon in his memory whispers. Hawke can’t help but remember every moment Varric slipped away, or seemed distracted by other matters when they spoke.

As Hawke approaches the door, Varric steps aside to let him pass.

 _We both know I’m too much a coward to say anything, Hawke_.

It rings in his ears. Instead of leaving, Hawke follows Varric, backing him into the armchair.

Varric’s eyes are wide. “Hawke, what–”

Hawke bends at his waist, almost hysterically noting how far down he needs to lean, and presses a soft kiss against the corner of Varric’s mouth. They’re both breathing hard and jagged, but Varric doesn’t pull away. Hawke savors the feeling of dragging his lips across Varric’s skin before pressing a harder kiss properly on his mouth.

Varric shifts under him, placing a shaky hand on his chest.

“Sorry it took me so long to catch up,” Hawke whispers. “And if you’re actually telling the truth about not wanting to be with me, do a small mercy and chuck me off the Gallows, will you?”

“No, I’ve been an idiot, it’s just been… painful, having you back. More than I expected,” he says. Varric’s hand is like a brand on his chest, and Hawke can barely hear him mutter, “This is really stupid.”

But then he manhandles Hawke into the chair and climbs into his lap, peppering his jaw and temple with kisses. Hawke's heart is beating so wildly, he can feel his pulse thumping in the palms of his hands. He wraps his arms around him and squeezes until Varric huffs in protest.

Hawke releases him and shrugs, giddy. “Add it to the pile.”

**Author's Note:**

> [ PS this is the hat that Varric fucks around with lmao ](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/dragonage/images/3/32/Headdress_of_Enchanter_Illana_Display.png/revision/latest?cb=20130211061702)


End file.
